Melancholy
by retired-fangirl
Summary: Light's eyes widen as he sees L's fingernails claw against the jeans around his ankles. Set in the same universe of "Turmoil". Set during the Yotsuba Arc.
1. The Darkness That Plagues Him

A/N: This is when you know your life has reached a new low: I'm writing an alternative universe fanfiction based on my own fanfiction Turmoil. I don't think you need to read it to comprehend this story, but I think it probably ha a better plot (I spent five year formulating it, rather than one night of deciding I felt motivated to write nly Death Note fanfiction).

Disclaimer: I would mention that I would not be writing Death Note fanfiction if I owned the rights to Death Note, however, sinc writing an AU fanfic, I would, indeed, write fanfiction to my own copyrighted work.

**Melancholy**

Chapter 1: The Darkness That Plagues Him

In 1989 the World Health Organization released a report detailing the prevalence of self injury in Europe. A few years later, crouching over a clunky computer, top of the line then, navigating an archaic version of the internet, he remembers reading the information, but now, nearly a decade past, the information that caught his attention then, and floats to the forefront of his mind now, stated: the highest percentage of males who engaged in self injurious behavior were between the age of 12 and 34. He remembers his lips curled up in a grin; the same grin plasters his face now. Statistic. He reminds himself he is a statistic.

He started when he was twelve.

He prefers razor blades. Specifically the tiny blades torn from cheap plastic pencil sharpeners most kids carried around in primary school. Not that L ever attended primary school. He substituted public education for individualized tutoring, excelling through the equivalent of a university degree by age fourteen; he substituted parental affection after the accident with small nicks on his ankles, loved by the thick metal digging into thin skin. The skin peeled back; red beaded along the ridges of his ankles, and the melancholy dripped away.

L realizes his lips are still quirked upwards. His cheeks begin to hurt, and any humor he felt fades in the blackness he has suffocated under since mid June. He gazes at the computer screen: he is attached to Light Yagami by a chain of slightly less than six feet. "I'm actually depressed," he explained to Light a week and two days after the boy's release, but the admission did nothing to help alleviate the swirling of emotions festering just under the skin of his ankles. Nor did their physical argument, Light with fists and L with his feet, as L bounced around theories behind his sulky mood, and Light countered in justification of himself and those he considered innocent volunteers.

Although his face reveals no active emotion as he looks into the monitor, Light stares at him. In his musings, he almost forgets about his presence. "Does Light-kun require something?" He stirs his tea with the biscuit end of a pocky stick. L nods at Light's resolute head shake, even as his mind slips backwards in time. He knows what will motivate him, even if the respite is short lived, fleeting. Watari comprehends; he requested L's company. L glimpses at Light from the corner of his eye, a motion so subtle, the boy is unaware of the detective's gaze boring into him. With the chain affixing the two together, L is unable to formulate a reason meticulous enough to convince Light he requires more than the time allotted to shower separated from him.

L in truth does not want to subject himself to Watari's gaze, the solitary person able to deduce his thoughts. Watari would be disappointed to recognize where L's deliberations have drifted. It's been four years since Watari noticed the inflamed red lines circling his ankles. "This needs to end," Watari stated, a tone ringing with finality, and it did end. Eventually. After months of cat and mouse secretive cutting, L quit turning to little scraps of metal for comfort. As he kneels in front of the large computer monitor attached to an equally small modern tower and sips at his overly sweetened tea, L's preoccupied with the next instance he can lead Light to the toilet without rousing suspicion.

After precisely two hours and fourteen minutes, and an interchangeable variable of seconds, L summons Light, leading the boy out of the main control room, away from his father and the task force. Light questions him as they walk to their, his, destination, and L replies, not giving the inquiries much contemplation. He slips into toilet slippers: he was raised in a British environment, but he is able to adapt to conflicting cultural norms. He had issued a two minute allotment for privacy sakes, and he followed his set protocols.

L closes the door, sinking to his familiar arrangement on the carpeted floor. This won't necessitate an elevated cognition level; it's simply easier to reach his ankles.

The blade slices through his flesh with ease. This isn't the first time he has done this since July; this isn't the first time he has done this whilst chained to Light. He drags the blade with thumb and forefinger against the skin above his ankle precisely, aware the blade's length is less than the distance from the edge of his thumb and the first joint. Between years of hunching over, putting strain on his calves and ankles, and the quiet desperation that urges him on, he doesn't flinch as he presses into his skin.

He has a minute left. The cut is deep, aching, and the skin splits open. The edges sag away from each other forming an elongated oval. He presses toilet roll to the cut, absently yearning for the comparative tranquility of memorizing trickles of blood, and allows twenty seconds to halt the flow, before standing and flushing the toilet. His jeans are long, bunching at the tops of his feet, and thick, and he trusts them to camouflage his secret yet again as he had for years. He rinses his hands in pretense and exits the toilet, darkness reigned to a small niche of his psyche.

Light raises his eyebrows, and L regards him with a tiny smile. He steps out of the toilet slippers, detecting belatedly the minute crimson splatter on the off white fabric, or the steady drip of red snaking down his feet, an perceptible indication. When he jerks his head up to meet Light's eyes, he recognizes the intent look, not of astonishment but, verification, as Light's intelligence places the truisms he acquired into an equation, and the answer calculates it's self. L gulps at caustic bile gathering at the back of his mouth.

...

A/N: The information about WHO is from wikipedia. It was what inspired this whole fanfiction.


	2. Matsuda: Self Injury?

A/N: Thank you all for the views, favs, and alerts!

Disclaimer in chapter one. Well my sad excuse of a disclaimer.

**Melancholy**

Chapter 2: Matsuda: Self Injury?

…

"Self mutilation, Ryuzaki?" Light coaxes him, dragging him by his hand, to the bedroom they share (where L continues his research until his body, exhausted, collapses, and Light sleeps). L shrugs in the same way he had three years prior when Watari asked him about it. An odd sentiment flickers in Light's eyes—L suspects empathy, but his unbalanced situation encourages him to question that—and his cheeks flush. L shifts his attention to the window, away from the boy whose hand grasps his own. The sky outside is clear, the pinnacle of August weather.

As Light's facial features soften, L considers a conversation they had a morning or two ago, mostly one sided as L studied a red speck on Light's shirt. "Are you okay," he asked, and Light had replied with an affirmative. Light looks at the floor, and L correctly assumes he is glancing at the coagulating mess on his foot. The cut stings. The empathetic expression: L's own eyes widen as the entirely of the conversation washes over him. He sorts through the last week, the first week of August in a span of seconds. A fragment of his conscious had observed Lights peculiar and similar-to-his behavior.

L grabs Light's co-dominant arm and pushes up the thick fabric of the boy's sweater, before he can react with more than a horrified look. "Ryuzaki!" he exclaims as L takes in the shallow scratches. He drops Light's arm, and stares at his other hand, specifically the slightly worn fingernails flecked with little chunks of skin and, if he observed long enough, red dots of blood.

"Self mutilation, Light-kun?" he mocks, repeating the phrase in the same concerned tone as Light moments prior.

Light's eyebrows, which had been slightly raised, almost joining at the center, furl down masking his eyes. "At least I'm not bleeding on the floor," he snaps. Unusual behavior, L notes. If he recalls accurately, he also reacted with acerbic rejoinders when Watari insistently pleaded with him.

L grins, the same smirk, as L from staring backwards into his past earlier in the morning, twists his face. It is not a joyous quirking of his lips, nor is it scathing in nature. It's a grim reminiscent of his experience. "Light-kun isn't bleeding on the floor _yet_." His voice drops to subarctic coolness. "Light-kun started hurting himself a few days ago as a means to cope with his nightmares. He started with one solitary wound, a fingernail pressed into his arm. Now, Light-kun scratches at abandon."

The silent implication roots the two in their squared off positions: the severity of Light's self harm would increase given time.

A buzzing coerces L to drop his gaze from Light's. He unearths his cell phone from his pocket and flips it open using only his thumb and forefinger, and holds it to his ear. The color drains from his face as the disembodied voice informs him of something.

Light's mind kicks on. After the physical altercation with L in Misa's rooms, Matsuda and Aizawa had spent a good half hour ribbing him about the fight. Matsuda insisted he was the one who had enough foresight to interrupt their fighting. Light jerks his sweater sleeve over his palm as he cottons on to every technological intricacy L's team stocked the building with. He glances around the room, refusing to look at L, who remains silent as the person on the phone communicates with him, as the disquieting epiphany informs him whoever is in the main control room—he wants to say everyone but Matsuda had left to pick up lunch—saw everything since they entered the room.

L shuts his phone with a snap, and stuffs the item back in his jeans pocket. He walks out of the room, silent, and Light trails behind also silent. L leads Light to the main control room, taking the same path in reverse. They enter, and mirth bubbles up as a laugh when Light notices his assumptions were correct. Matsuda's face expresses a horrible mix of uncertainty and disbelief.

Watari enters the room behind them, leaving his station of security cameras for the first time Light is aware of since they moved last Sunday. L forces himself to acknowledge his mentor, the man who welcomed him to Wammy's House, the man who knew his quirks, his flaws, his everything almost as well as he. "Watari."

Watari envelops L in a tight embrace, but not before L sees the liquid pooling behind the man's glasses. After a long moment, he releases L, and approaches Light in four steps. He places a hand on Light's shoulder, eyes still moist as he looks into Light's own. Watari regards both Light and L, whose knees buckle and his legs collapse underneath him, with crinkled forehead and disappointed frown. Matsuda catches L beneath his armpits and lowers the detective gently to the floor. Watari observes Matsuda, and speaks to him in a surprisingly calm voice. "I trust you realize what you saw today must remain confidential?"

Matsuda's jaw drops and he shakes his head. "That's not fair," he cries. "Just because Ryuzaki's background is so secretive, doesn't mean he shouldn't get help, and Light!" At this admission, Matsuda jerks his gaze to Light. "Light is the chief's son! He's still a minor."

"No, it isn't fair," Watari agrees. "In Ryuzaki's case, however, it is imperative."

Light bristles at the reminder of his status of a minor, and as a responsible adult Matsuda was well within his rights to inform his father.

L glowers at Matsuda. "You're a fool. No one will believe your word over mine."

"I have proof!" Matsuda gestures behind himself at the camera, waving his arm wildly through the air.

Light's chest constricts. "Please don't tell Dad, Matsuda-san," he implores. "He's already had a heart attack. I don't want him to suffer." His pleading is half sincere and half out of self preservation.

Watari crosses the room and stops behind L, next to Matsuda, his face hardens into the same man Matsuda had seen at the beginning of the Kira investigstion. "You must not tell anyone about this. Light is part of the Kira investigation and Ryuzaki is vital to that. I apologize."

Matsuda swallows and deliberates internally, before acquiescing with a nod of his head. When he speaks at last, his voice is the barest of whispers. "I understand."

…

A/N: I categorized this fanfiction as Light and L (or L and Light, I don't remember), however, as you read above, Matsuda is part of this. Do you think it should stay as is or should I change it to L and Matsuda? Argh, I wish you could choose three main characters.

In Japan, the age of majority is twenty.

The memory L is thinking of, where Light has a droplet of blood on his sleeve, is pretty much spelled out in that scene, but if you want to read it (in more detail), it's in the first chapter of Turmoil. That's where/when Melancholy diverges from it, so there really isn't any spoiler or anything.


	3. Stalemate No Winner and No Loser

A/N: I don't have to apologize for a late chapter, unlike my other two fanfictions. Woot. So enjoy?

Disclaimer is in chapter one, in all its awesomeness.

**Melancholy**

Chapter 3: Stalemate. No Winner and No Loser

…

1991: twelve years old, hair cut at his ears, slightly less mussed, eyes hollow and not yet accustomed to sleep deprivation, lips set in a thin line as he drags a pencil sharpener blade across his ankle for the first time. It had taken him months to acquire one; for a school of orphans, Wammy's is a breeding pool of social isolation and awkwardness—in the end L couldn't just approach one of the other orphans for their sharpener. Even in 1991, as L transcended the education provided by Wammy's House, carving an identity for his alias and first name (not than anyone would ever surmise that), L was still a young boy. He grit his teeth, swiped at his ankle with the small blade, praying the metal would indent his skin enough to release everything, to quiet the world for a moment.

As red beads blossomed on his skinny leg, drying almost instantly along the shallow cuts, he mentally records the memorable notion: it worked.

2004: L continues to cut himself, over a decade after his first success. The blades don't work like that anymore. He slices into his flesh with the expectation everything will grind to a halt, silence will envelop his conscious, and his misery will dribble away as blood. The most intricate fallacy with self mutilation, L knows—he knew since the first time his research extended to self injury—is the delusions that it isn't an addiction, that it isn't similar to a drug, albeit natural. He cuts his ankles, head brimming with the knowledge he is an addict chasing an endorphin high, but why encourage his self preservation to plunge off a cliff? If he ended his self injurious behavior, L doesn't contemplate where that would leave him.

The blood has long since stopped, leaving faint twinges little reminders of the sharp blade nestled deeply in his pocket once more. Last time, before, L meandered to wherever Watari stationed himself, jeans rolled awkwardly at his knees, tributaries of blood winding round his ankles. He pulls a black sock over his foot and ankle, grimacing at the strange sensation of fabric clinging. After his negligence garnered Light's _and_ Matsuda's notice, he suffers with the socks. At least the constricting fabric inflames the newest set of cuts as he crouches in front of the computer screens.

He leads Light away from the toilet, well aware the boy's presence prevents him from rushing to Watari to bandage up his ankles. The foot attached to his most recently injured ankle feels weightless, and only his awkward slouch keeps him upright. The socks folded once over his ankles worsen the sensation. He sets his face behind neutrality.

"Are you alright?" Not neutral enough. Light speaks, at him, since L chooses to pretend the inquiry is directed at the far wall for all he cares.

"Ryuzaki?" L swallows a groan at the second voice, slightly higher pitched than the seventeen year old, one of only three, besides himself, who knows about the constant burn-like stinging around his ankles.

L continues to walk the path back to task force headquarters, the room fast becoming sanctity—Light doesn't want his father to know about his foray into self injury, and Matsuda, well L imagines the idiot refuses to alarm the chief he looks up to. L barges through the doors, seemingly unfazed by Matsuda's trailing concerns or the smug glances he desires to yank from Light's façade. Soichiro levels the three young men with a concerned gaze, eyebrows furrowed and a softness in his eyes that reminded L of Watari, a gaze fast infiltrating every day, but like every other day, L and Light resume their investigation and the task force forgets the interruption, or rather L realizes, sets aside the information in favor of monitoring Kira killings.

…

Light awakens late at night with a start. He thrusts himself into a sitting position on the bed, eyes wide but fogged over, still lost in the last remnants of a nightmare. His lips part in a silent scream, a desperate plea to his father ("Dad! Stop!" Please don't shoot, please!), even as his ears ring with his father's accusations ("Both of us are murderers, we'll meet in hell."). As his fingers creep up his sleeve, even as the detective's focus in attuned to the bright light of the laptop on the floor at the other end of the bed, Light's reluctance to give L any satisfaction wrenches his hand from his shirt sleeve.

Unlike L, he hasn't furthered his self injurious behavior, which adds a reassuring barrier between himself and the detective who desires to find proof of him murdering as Kira. And so, he allows the nightmare to fade from his thoughts, forcing his breaths to deepen as he inches into the blankets on the bed. It's just a dream. It's a normal occurrence, and Light will cope with them normally. At the very least, he will resist the temptation to scratch himself.

L smirks as he solves easier crimes under his other two personas, Light's struggle not lost on him. Yet, his heart hardens akin to lead, and sinks to the bottom of his chest. Light has resisted the lure of self injury for over a month, a feat L has never consciously attempted. He mentally shakes his head, and plows through one of the late Eraldo Coil's cases to derail his train of thought.

…

Weeks pass by: September approaches with cooling temperatures and the steady dropping of dead leaves to the ground stories below. L tallies the days with a fresh cut on his leg. He ignores Light's omniscient scowl as he closes himself in the toilet; he ignores the two minute rule, preferring to slice into his skin, than keep better tabs on his main Kira suspect. The tension is high in the task force headquarters, and everyone notices. Matsuda rarely speaks to L and Light, even ignoring the occasional query from Watari, choosing to answer only to Soichiro, Aizawa, and Mogi. The days continue with investigation, albeit strained.

L toys with a mug of coffee, adding sugar cubes one at a time, letting the cubes fall from his thumb and forefinger with a plop, unconcerned with the diminutive globules of coffee splattering onto the table as brown dots. Looking over, Light grimaces at L's actions. The anger burning up within him feels vaguely reminiscent to something else, something familiar, but just out of his mind's reach. He frowns, and forces himself to focus on his reading, ignoring the almost constant itching buried under the flesh of his arms.

Another ten minutes agonizingly go by, each minute stretched taut. A loud clang disrupts the alert silence of the task force members. L and Light glance up to Matsuda's chair toppled to the floor and bottled rage blooming on his face. His fists balled at his sides, Matsuda glares at everyone who faces him—even his former chief and coworkers. "This is ridiculous! We're just sitting around like nothing's wrong. What's _wrong_ with you?" The last statement is directed at L, who presses the tips of his fingernails along the fabric of his jeans cloaking a series of cuts.

"What's going on?" Aizawa asks from his computer.

Soichiro holds papers in his hands as his brow knits. "Matsuda?"

L keeps his eyes at the computer monitor, one set of fingers digging into his ankle, the other clicking with the mouse. Light hides behind layers of constructed masks. He adopts a nonchalant, uninterested pretense, his eyes wide and lips perfectly straight.

Soichioro's gentle probe shatters the last of Matsuda's resolve. "Ask your son," he exclaims, then turns and stomps out of the room. L exhales as Light's heart hammers in his chest.

Light shrugs his shoulders as he meets the confused scrutiny of his father. He shakes his head, conceals his fraying nerves under a tenuous facade of insouciance. "I'm not sure," he says.

Soichiro, former chief of the NPA not for nothing, detects the slight tremor in Light's tone, the shifting of his arms, and the fingers that rub against his shirt sleeves. He is reminded of a similar instance: Light chose to quit tennis. Sachiko had questioned his decision and insisted he have a talk with his son, one of those dreaded parental lectures, the "you-would-tell-me-if-something-was-bothering-you" speeches. Earnestly, Light nodded and assured him he wanted to focus on his university entrance exams. His chest burns with the knowledge he needs to sit down with Light again. He nods for the moment, for the sake of privacy, and returns to his analyzing. He notices the rigidity falls away as Light settles back into his chair.

L pulls himself up from his hunched position tugging slightly at the chain, an unobtrusive indication Light should follow. They walk to the toilet, neither speaking, and L's fingers curling around the small blade in his pocket. L slips his feet into the toilet slippers and enters toilet, positioning the chain in the half moon notch cut from the door, when Light steps in the room with him, yanking the door shut.

…

A/N:

So, are you readers enjoying this? Does this even make a thread a sense compared to "Turmoil"?


	4. He Can No Longer Carve Out His Emotions

LLR: Thanks for the review! I hope this chapter holds your interest as well.

Disclaimer is in chapter one; it is an awesome disclaimer.

**Melancholy**

Chapter 4: When He Can No Longer Carve Out His Emotions

…

The toilet is a small carpeted room, not much larger than a tatami mat with the addition of the toilet; the two men stand a nose distance from each other. L's grasp slackens on the razor blade; the metal falls to the floor glinting in the artificial light. "What?" L grinds out between clenched teeth, normal comedic banter absent from his words.

Light bends down and retrieves the blade. He twirls the metal in his fingers as he levels L with a mild stare. "Am I that repugnant?" he snarls, and L recognizes the familiar scrunching of Light's eyebrows from his resolute assertions of innocence.

L forgets about the glittering blade in between Light's fingers. "Is Light-kun repugnant? No, Light-kun isn't repugnant." His voice is low as he repeats Light's question; confusion presents itself in the slight elevation at the end of L's answer.

"Then why do you need this!?" Light thrusts his fingers underneath L's nose, and the detective gazes at the blade in his hand.

L speaks frothily, anger freezing the verbiage to ice, "That," he plucks the blade from Light, "had nothing to do with Light-kun." Hands wrap around the material of his shirt, wrenching the thin white fabric from his chest. L's head snaps against the wall as Light shoves him backwards, not more than a few steps in the small space.

Large eyes, vindicated anger, lips pressed together in a thin line: L's insides liquefy in molten fire as he refuses to squirm under Light's ire. "You're cutting yourself every day," Light says as an explanation for his accusation.

"Light-kun harms himself too," L indicts weakly, the rage draining out of him as his hand creates a fist around the blade in his possession. The sting as the sharp edge nicks into his skin cuts away his rage.

Light shakes his head. "No, I'm not. I haven't since…" His hands release L's shirt. And he steps back a few paces.

L slides to the floor, falling into seiza without comprehending it. He hangs his head so his bangs hide the raw emotion pooling at the corner of his eyes, blurring the carpet fibers. His teeth sink into his bottom lip and his hand tremble. He balls them into fists. Head stuffed with cotton, he can't think, can't breathe, and can only hope Light will stop looking down at him with softening eyes. He's shaking. And a hand uncurls one of his fists, the one he remembers, as fingers force his palm flat, grasping the blade.

"Ryuzaki?" a murmured question and Light's thumb strokes the meaty padding of skin on his palm.

L sucks in a ragged breath, forcing back the burning at the edges of his eyes, quiets the cramping of his stomach, and slowly relaxes his other hand. Finally, he locks gazes with the eighteen year old Kira suspect. "I'm fine, Light-kun."

He hears Light's undignified snort and string of muttered sarcastic diatribes as he steps into his familiar crouch, before righting in a slouched standing position. He absently scratches the outside of an ankle with the opposite toe through the sock he despises and sparks of pain flare up the abused nerves of his calf. The fogginess in his head refuses to lift, but familiarity in his uncouth, shamelessly repulsive detective persona quirks his lips into a smirk.

As he presses a nail into his bleeding palm, he realizes Light must've extracted his blade. His only concern lies in the physical evidence Light could lord over him; he has the means to acquire another one. A knock on the door tugs Light's and L's attention to the door of the toilet. How many minutes had passed since L enclosed himself in with L?

Light twists the knob, before L can warn him against opening the door.

On the other side of the entrance stands Matsuda. His cheeks are flushed and tear tracks stain his face. His shoulders quiver, but his voice comes out almost steady. "What're you two doing? Everyone's worried."

Light smiles—genuine L notes—and offers an apology. Matsuda's eyes lighten, before he turns his attention to L, and the smile vanishes from his face. "Ryuzaki, you look—"

L doesn't give the man only a year older than him an opportunity to articulate the surely deplorable emotional state of his self. He idly wishes he had a couple sugar cubes or a packet of the cheap granulated garbage, anything to keep his hands from trembling. "We should head back," he commands huskily.

He commences the trek back to the main investigation room, but a hand placed on the center of his back stills him. His shoulders shake under the pressure of the hand. Light is visible at his side, so the hand must belong to… Matsuda steps a few paces ahead, falling instep at L's other side. His hand gives way to the entirety of his arm wrapping around L's backside.

"I talked to Watari," Matsuda says.

L freezes. "Excuse me?" His ears feel plugged, and everything warbles as if coming from underwater.

"Watari," Matsuda enunciates between clenched teeth. "He said you've been doing that." He points with a finger at L's ankles, a back and forth jabbing motion. His forehead knits and the eternal optimism flushes away. "He said you've been doing that for thirteen years."

L ignores Light's scrutiny boring into his back. "It's none of your concern." Matsuda's arm around his upper back prevents him from sloughing off the awkwardness. L dearly wants to whirl around to face Matsuda with hatred burning up in his irises. He settles for a shrug.

"Thirteen years. Either you started very young," Light pipes into the conversation. "I don't think so though. You probably started cutting at the average age, so prepubescent." His voice reflects a clinical intellect of someone with too much ivy tower instruction. A small laugh. "You're older than you look."

His stomach clenches at Light's deduction. The boy is good. Kira good. He sneers against the mounting nausea rising in his esophagus, His lungs demand air, but he swallows down the breath.

"It is my concern!" Matsuda shakes L, the action causing his head to spin dizzying. He grimaces as white dances across his vision.

He nearly groans, "Why?"

Light presses his hand to L's arm and speaks reason to Matsuda. "Stop. Look at him." L recoils as two sets of eyes view his weakness. The nausea dissipates when Matsuda's hands fall back to his waist, and L shrinks into a slouch.

"Because you're my friend!" Matsuda scrubs at his eyes with his suit jacket sleeve.

The air leaves him in a shaky gasp. He bites down on his thumb and looks back, at the closed toilet door. His head pounds and his fingers twitch—even the thumb lodged between his teeth. All he needed was a handful of slices and everything would've been fine. "You're an idiot if you think we're friends." All his uncontrolled anger and rage seeps out in a harsh diatribe. He stabs his incisors into the long-callused flesh of his thumb.

Light's face shifts: his nose twitches and his lips part. "You said we were friends. In fact, 'Light-kun is my first ever friend.'" He quotes L, who bristles now as he recalls the words fabricated to disorientate the Kira suspect. L expects a flash of anger in Light's eyes (good), and is unprepared for the genuine heart stopping concern.

L questions his interpersonal skills not for the first time during the investigation. This is the most he has ever been around people, even going as far as to live with the majority of the task force members and sharing a room with a university freshman.

His thoughts spin out in a chaotic jumble; the lack of privacy is getting to him. He's shaking and gasping now. Matsuda and Light are staring at him, both donning equally puzzled gazes, both attempting to process his outbursts, his behavior, his every quirk. L slumps to the floor, almost, but not quite, assuming his usual kneeling. Overwhelmed, he falls on his bottom and curls his knees to his chest. His arms follow, wrapping around his knees; he lowers his head to his knees.

Matsuda falls to one knee next to him. He prods L's head from his knees, and L takes in the warm droplets of water on his jeans. He wants to rest his head back on the material, but Matsuda's hand is supporting his chin. Light is looking down at the two older men, arms fidgeting at his sides, as if unsure how to follow suit. Finally Light kneels also, less than an arm's length from L.

"He said you stopped," Matsuda says quietly.

L answers, almost unaware of his action, in a scratchy voice, "I just got better at hiding it."

L took to hiding desperate rounds with the blade along his hips, his course jeans stemming most excess blood flow. Even his baggy attire did not stretch over his mid thigh. He bought his own sharpeners, detaching the small metal blade just outside a convenience store, wrenching his redeemer from the plastic encasing, and shoving the sharpest blade in his pocket. All his machinations completed before Watari awoke.

Light's hand on his shoulder lifts the years of secrecy, and he realizes his face is wet with freshly dripping tears. He can't coax out even breaths, and resorts to choking on ragged breaths, when he finds himself smothered in the formal suit of the youngest member of the NPA. As warm arms encircle him, L pitches forward into the grasp, forgetting how to breathe, forgetting his position as the top detective in the world, and sobs without abandon for the first time since long before he silenced his emotions with steel.

…

A/N:

Seiza is the traditional way of sitting in Japan. Thanks to a back injury last summer, the only way I found temporary comfort was by sitting in a seiza position, so now I feel ready to head to Japan, because I can maintain the kneeled position for an hour. ^_^

I found myself obsessing with how Matsuda would address Watari (would he say Watari without the honorific or Watari-san, sama, or ojisan?). From watching the Japanese anime (because I am wary of scanlations and translations of the manga) and focusing on the voices and not the subtitles, I figured out Matsuda refers to L as Ryuzaki with no honorific (because it's an alias?), so I assumed Matsuda would treat Watari the same since his name is also an alias.

Fun fact, when especially anxious or annoyed, L drops the honorifics on people's names. I wonder if that has to do with his non-Japanese youth? Also, if I heard correctly, in Japanese, L refers to Watari as Watari-ojisan. Hmm…

Next and last chapter will be out sometime Tuesday, the 12th.


	5. Breaking Through

A/N: Thank you all for the views, faves, alerts, and especially reviews! I hope you all enjoyed the weird meanderings of my mind one random day, and the story it created.

The disclaimer is a non-issue, until the lawyers hear of my nonchalance.

**Melancholy**

Chapter 4: Breaking Through

…

L detangles himself from Matsuda—an awkward array of arms and legs all twisting into one—as soon as the tears stop flowing freely down his cheeks. His eyes burn, his chest twinges in small gasps, but nothing quells the flushing in his cheeks as his gaze rises to meet that of his Kira suspect, the village idiot of the task force, and much to his chagrin: Watari.

His mentor reveals his age in the deep set frown, the penetrating looks; L notes this is Quillish gazing at him, Lawliet, rather than Watari: the spokesperson for L. He doesn't ask, but the query shines in the tears forming behind spectacles: why? Why is lost on him, so he glances at Light, whose expressions mirrors Watari's. His chest tightens, and he feels the same awful sensation of desperately needing to cry.

This time he grits his teeth, and banishes the sensation to a niche in his mind. As L, Deneuve, and Coil, the world's three great detectives, he could, would, and bloody should mask his inner turmoil. He offers a shrug, a piss poor plea bargain, that none of the three hovering over him accepts. "Surveillance will record this." A blunt, monotone response: if they won't give in to his begging, surely they will listen to rationality.

"The cameras for this hallway were disabled after Matsuda caught up with you two," Watari supplies logic and reason, and L seethes.

L jumps to his feet, easily discarding one position for another. He leans into his usual slouch and thrusts his hands into his pockets. When neither hand collides with a blade, he recalls Light never returned it. His face twists into a grimace, and he notices Light's balled fist out of the corner of his eye. He suppresses a sigh, and surreptitiously returns his focus to all three. "What do you want," he nearly whispers in reply, a broken tenor rushing downward to meet the floor. Defeated.

"You need to stop!" Matsuda's hands return to his shoulders, fingers bunching up his tee shirt. L lifts his face towards Matsuda. He glowers. Really, if he could stop; if he wanted to stop; if any other coping mechanism worked, for god's sake, he _would_.

Light steps between L, who curls his hands into fists at his side, and Matsuda. He speaks to Matsuda in a voice exuding patience, a façade that must've taken years to craft. "I don't think it'll help, Matsuda-san. He's been doing this for thirteen years, so there must be a reason why he still does it."

Matsuda's face brightens. "Right as always, Light-kun." His expression quickly sours, replaced by the awful concerned, abused puppy dog face. At least Light blocks any chance of Matsuda's fingers reclaiming his shirt and gripping the material. "But," the next string of inarticulate questions is directed at L, "What reason? Why are you doing that?" He points a finger at Light. "And you! You're just as bad!"

Light blanches. For a moment, L successfully inhales, exhales, as the attention toggles from him to Light.

"Stop it," Watari intervenes. He speaks directly at Matsuda, voice pitched similarly to a scolding parent. "You're anger isn't going to help."

Matsuda practically moans, "Then what will?"

Light hurriedly rolls up his sleeves and thrusts his bare, clean arms under the youngest NPA member's nose. "I'm fine Matsuda-san," he announces quickly. He jerks his arms as if to say, _see_?

"You all think I'm an idiot." Matsuda paces in the hallway, six or so steps forward, turns, and six-odd steps back. He wrings his hand as he elaborates, but a small grin affixes to his lips. "I get it. I'm immature and brash. I get too invested; I try too hard, but I'm not completely dumb, guys."

L opens his mouth to utter something purely sarcastic, but Watari silently shakes his head, and L's mouth closes. He hunches back into a neutral stance. Matsuda continues, starting with Light and changing tangents to L, "You stopped, _if_ you stopped, because you don't want Chief to know, and _you_, I found out about your secret. I went to Watari-san."

L raises a brow at Watari, only just realizing Matsuda's affirmation implies Watari chose to reveal private information about L. Watari says, "It was necessary."

"I thought I was under strict privacy laws," L says. His words are sharp, cutting with accusation.

Watari shakes his head, a slow back-and-forth akin to a death knoll. "From the cameras, you're self injury is becoming more frequent, and likely more severe. I trust Matsuda with the information." L nods; Light and he hear the silent message: I didn't reveal anything too damning.

"And Matsuda?" L asks in a voice thick with apprehension, mind already working two steps ahead.

Watari bows slightly to Matsuda. "He may be young, and he may be careless, but he has a good heart." Light knows, without looking up from his bare, clean arms, L's face presents a mix of confusion replete with a snarl. "I would've remained silent if I thought otherwise." Watari raises himself from his bow, and backs away from the three quietly.

In the moment it takes for Matsuda to blink, L tugs at his end of the chain, indicating Light should follow. "Let's return to work." His head remains frontward, looking down the hall at the main work room. His voice comes out normal, only the rigidity in his words announces his desire to abscond.

"Wait a minute, Ryuzaki." Matsuda interrupts, catching L by an arm. He threads his arms around L's, similar to Misa's incessant tugs at Light, forcing the detective to turn and face him. "Watari-san obviously wants us to talk."

L rips his arm from Matsuda's and, not even disguising the overt self injury by chewing at the skin, he bites down at his thumb. He stares at Matsuda, as if retorting: let's talk then. Matsuda's face darkens, and Light intervenes at Matsuda's discouraged look. "He knows you better than we do. If Watari-san wants you to open up about it, maybe you should."

L, shoulders slumped defeated, sighs. He stabs at his thumb with his teeth, but nods shortly at Light and Matsuda.

After abandoning the hallway for a private sitting room in Watari's quarters, an area off limits to the constant recording, they do talk. It's an ugly thing, a slow unwinding into the three greatest detectives' psyche, the exposure of things they never wanted to know about L. When the topic shifts to L's current melancholy, Light fights down the urge to throw a punch in his face, but that would just create a repeat of last month. Battling fists and feet, and nothing getting solved.

Matsuda proves himself in Watari's optimism; he reaches out to L, wrapping his arms around him, never dipping into idle reassurances. "I had a friend in university, he couldn't handle the pressure," he offers. He reminisces long after L reveals his, surely heavily edited, past. As he divulges the second half, Matsuda's voice cracks, "He killed himself right before third year."

Light's eyes widen. In his high school, suicide prevention was astronomical; it was a well known fact the suicide rate was exceedingly high, but it wasn't something he ever had to consider. "I'm sorry," he apologizes in good charity.

Matsuda waves his hand and smiles weakly. "It was years ago."

"It still affects you today," L points out, and Light winces at the brashness of L's comment. Of course it affected him; that was evident in his wobbly voice.

"Well, yes, I suppose so," Matsuda grasps at straws as he attempts to reply. "I mean it as an explanation. When I saw you two talking about self mutilation—" His breath hitches. Self injury isn't exactly common or well researched, but his training had included instruction on it, mostly to prevent accidental incarcerations. He shivers, and continues, "I know it's not about wanting to die, but, the scratches on your arm," he looks at Light, then L, "and all that blood on your foot, it just…"

Matsuda shrugs his shoulders at last. His eyes water and he sniffles. He sucks in a breath, composing himself. "I don't want to lose anymore friends."

Light offers him a smile. "Matsuda's right." He rubs his arm. "My father doesn't deserve that pain."

L curves the edges of lips up, a tenuous smile. "I suppose…I will consider it." The words are jumbled, and his tone is gravely, but the emotion behind it is genuine.

A grin breaks through the anguish from years ago on Matsuda's face. "That means a lot. Thank you, Ryuzaki."

…

A/N:

In Japan in 1998, the suicide rate tripled (if I recall correctly), so when Light attended junior/high schools, by the early 2000s, I'm sure there was prevention-type programs. I know some of the first manga I read about suicide were from this period ("Confidential Confessions" from 2001, anyone?). Also, Matsuda's friend would have been one of the individuals who committed suicide in 1998, sometime right before April.

I do have plans for another Death Note fanfiction, which I will start seriously writing after the first opportunity I get to go home to retrieve my Death Note manga from my closet, which will be the second week of March at the latest.


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